


from laden boughs

by strangesmallbard



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Additional Archive Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cooking, Developing Relationship, F/F, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28723335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangesmallbard/pseuds/strangesmallbard
Summary: Although—no, the house is out of the soft cheese and they grocery shop on Sunday. Instead of going to Church, for Dr. Mary Malone. Sundays are when Mary Malone meditates in the morning (except when she has grading) and then walks to the store instead of driving (except when she has grading). She tells Marisa these things.What would happen, she wonders, if she told Mary things too.**An AU where Marisa wakes up in Mary's world after the events of "The Amber Spyglass." A year later.
Relationships: Marisa Coulter/Mary Malone
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	from laden boughs

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This AU is still haunting me! This fic is ostensibly a prequel to "love, let my nightmares turn into dreams" but you don't need to read it first. Also, my take on daemons in Mary's world differs slightly from the books - I wanted to explore how the mechanics of each universe might work together.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Rayna, Zohra, and Onella for their help and feedback! 
> 
> Title is from the poem, "[From Blossoms"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43012/from-blossoms) by Li-Young Lee.

Saturday afternoons are quiet. Not like the stale quiet of Marisa’s London flat—lofted above the tallest heads like the Authority gilded in gold—nor the brittle quiet of the North, knowing the cold will kill you before another person even has a chance. Willoughby Court simply has the blessed silence of neighbors who choose to spend their days elsewhere. Birds flit about mildly in the trees. Doors open slowly and whine shut. Even the boy across the street running all over with a football, marring the view out her window, cannot ruin this.

The quiet ought to be lovely. Like a decadent slice of cake. Her “homework” is finished for the weekend, all computer documents submitted to a Scholar exactly her age, who never can match her lipstick to her pantsuit, but receives the title of _Doctor—_ but, well. Such thoughts are apparently _a little archaic, Marisa. Look at Mary! She doesn’t give a fig about how she looks._

 _I think I resent that,_ Mary then said to her terrible sister, eye spasming in Marisa’s direction. _My lanyard always matches my shirts._

One of those lanyards hangs off a lamp in Mary’s microscopic parlor room now, catching glare. It’s maroon, covered in little galaxies. _Nebulae_ , she mouths, then realizes she can say out loud without fear on this Saturday Afternoon, in this quiet. “Nebulae,” she warbles.

Marisa sounds drunk. She is drunk. She looks beside her rigid perch on Mary’s couch, stares at the empty collection of atoms that refuse to form—

“It’s too quiet,” she informs Ozy, like he isn’t the restless creature currently pressing on her stomach contents. She swirls around her red wine; her own, that she bought, with her own funds. No Delamare, Coulter, Belacqua fortune.

It tastes like shit. It was seven pounds.

She should cook something.

That’s what Mary does when she’s home on Saturday afternoons instead of holed up in the office, grading. Never during the week; there’s a collection of takeout menus strewn on the little table in the parlor room. Marisa itches to organize the papers every time she passes them, but this isn’t her house and cleaning would hardly be her responsibility if it were.

Last week’s dish was called _pizza_ —baked dough covered with fresh tomato sauce from a pot and a soft cheese called _mozzarella_ that Mary unearthed from tupperware filled with cloudy water. She could have bought the crust premade from Tesco, Mary explained, rolling the dough out with a large wooden cylinder and her entire body weight. Her forearms were covered in flour. When she had pushed up her sleeve for the fourth time, she left a swathe of it behind. _But I like doing things with my hands. I always volunteered for kitchen duty at the convent, did some of my best thinking that way._

Insults coiled around her mind, watching her work. How common of you, Dr. Malone, look at the red slush under your nails, look at the sweat sheen on your brow. Instead, she said: _The Magisterium once declared tomatoes heretical. Too close to the apple._

Mary had then laughed, a quick exhalation. _I’m not making fun, promise!_ Followed by a snort. _You just said it so seriously, I’m—oh, I’m sorry. Tell me more about the tomatoes._

Undignified as it was, her reaction didn’t cause Marisa’s scowl; in fact, she once penned an essay about the moral efficacy of local agriculture, not that Jordan College gave it anything more than a footnote commendation. She was fixated on a spot of flour on Mary’s forehead, left by an absentminded swipe of her thumb. Like Mary just didn’t care who saw. That Marisa saw.

Marisa takes the last sip of her wine. There are syrupy dregs at the bottom. They look like optic nerves soaking in blood. She pulls one out and rolls it between her thumbs until the pads stain purple. Bright purple, because it was seven pounds.

She could make the pizza.

Although—no, the house is out of the soft cheese and they grocery shop on Sunday. Instead of going to Church, for Dr. Mary Malone. Sundays are when Mary Malone meditates in the morning (except when she has grading) and then walks to the store instead of driving (except when she has grading). She tells Marisa these things.

What would happen, she wonders, if she told Mary things too.

“Well, well. Let’s see what Dr. Malone does have in the house,” she says to nobody at all. She wipes lint off her pants and stands. “Shall we?”

* * *

Clicking open the front door, Mary does think: oh no, burglars.

Only it would be ridiculous, most likely, for burglars to make a curry. Much less her favorite recipe, one that her nose can immediately detect. Her fried neurons snap awake in muscle-memory, all those sleepless nights in the science lounge with her cohort, studying Fermi’s Golden Rule and raving about Ptolemy.

What she finds, _whom_ she finds, cooking curry in her kitchen is even more surprising than a chef burglar. Or angels from the multiverse communicating through a computer, for that entire matter. She’s not going to say that. No, she’s not going to say that.

“Evening!” she calls into the hallway.

Something sizzles. It’s the only response she gets. She can only hope there’s meant to be some sizzling. It’s not like she ever said _no cooking_ _,_ that would be near-controlling behavior, but she also quite likes her kitchen and does not miss the microwave in the science lounge.

Mary deposits her lanyard on the lamp and her full briefcase in the hall closet, lest she be tempted to open her laptop before Monday. She looks into the mirror and scrunches her curls before she can assess the bundle of nerves making her care about her _hair_ after a long, long day of thesis advising.

It’s fair, she decides whilst shrugging off her coat, to avoid the rather gay answer to that set of questions until the subject of those questions is no longer a fire hazard. (And to avoid Marisa’s obsession with telling Mary about hair products.)

“Right,” she says to her reflection. She laughs, shakes out her hair for good measure. 

Nerves still titter in her chest. Much like a bird with a lot to say.

 _Later_ , she promises Ída. _We will talk about it later. Promise._ She sends a soothing wave to the little alpine chough in her chest and her fingertips tingle in response, that signal of acceptance. The eighth wonder of this world, still, to know her soul is a tangible thing and has the means to communicate back even though Mary cannot see her anymore.

There’s another sizzle.

Alright, showtime.

Marisa Coulter is stood rigidly over a steaming saucepan, neck ducked at an angle approaching ninety degrees. Her nails clack, clack on the countertops in an ominous rhythm. She’s wearing Mary’s apron, also, the purple one from an old colleague that says _That’s how I roll,_ followed by the equation for velocity. Soot and sweet-smelling spices dance together in the warm air.

“Smells great,” Mary tries, clinging to the doorway. “Need help with...anything?”

When Marisa turns, Mary can see her flushed cheeks, the pinched expression in her brow. Her lips, pinker than usual, are equally scrunched up. Behind her, Mary’s kitchen is unusually sterile—all cabinets closed, the metal on the sink gleaming. Seldom-used jam jars above the fridge are filed in a straighter line than they were this morning. Only the photos on her refrigerator retain any crookedness; Will Parry smiles at her between snapshots of her niece and nephew at the beach. “I followed your recipe, Dr. Malone.”

“Right, so it is. Glad you found it.”

Marisa tilts her head slowly. “You don’t trust your own words?”

She lets go of the doorway. She sticks her hands deep in her pockets, possibly for courage. It’s been a long time since she’s felt like an undergrad at her first convention, knowing that a crowd of strangers will pick her apart like a vulture. “It can be a hard one to get right,” she says gently. “Sometimes you need a poison-tester.”

That elicits a sudden smile, wide and curled at the edges. Her sister had once called Marisa’s smile _a bit creepy_ , which started yet another argument about Mary bringing home strays. Just like the dog, May, you remember the dog in the park during fourth form? It was adorable but it also foamed at the mouth and you ignored every single person who said stop bloody petting it.

Most of the time, Mary Malone can abide good-natured chiding. _She’s a person, thanks._ Chin up, arms crossed. _And_ _you can’t just call me May every time you disagree with me._

Without preamble—quite rare, honestly—Marisa saunters right up up to her. Her hair is frizzy at the ends, from the steam. All of her seems to be feverishly warm; the flush in her cheeks is down her neck and she smells of burned onions (oh no), perfume, and a lot of wine.

She lifts a wooden ladle close to Mary’s lips. Her hand cups the meager steam gathering around the stew, fingertips close to brushing against the underside of Mary’s chin. “Hmm. If you do crumple to your death, you’ll have only yourself to blame.”

What she doesn’t say to her sister is this: Marisa smiles like she could make all of space-time warp around it. Like she has before, no matter what or who she tore apart in the process.

That first part would incur some decidedly good-natured _needling_ , which, yes. She left the convent to pursue another degree in theoretical astrophysics and ostensibly, on occasion, a romantic relationship with a woman. When Marisa Coulter broke into her office to discuss some haunted thing called _experimental theology_ , Mary felt that irrepressible tug in her belly; the one so similar to a bolt of discovery and yet different enough to take notice. 

Perhaps some other time, when they’re both sober, she will quip back: _I think I’ll take that risk, thank you._ Lean forward to drink, allow fingertips to finally brush skin. Perhaps.

Today, however, she carefully takes the ladle from Marisa’s hot hand. “I’m sure it’s deliciously mundane,” she says, lifting it. “Cheers.”

It is not delicious.

Mary also doesn’t die, which is fantastic.

Marisa steps back to observe, leaving a chilled spot in the air. She shifts on her feet like she’s trying to stop herself from fully swaying. Going by the empty bottle on the island counter, that might be true. “You hate it.”

“The onions are...very crispy.”

Marisa grabs the ladle without sparing Mary another glance and returns to the pot to consult her concoction. Mary takes the reprieve to grimace. There’s a tart, herby flavor that is definitely not curry. 

She hears a sharp exhale. “That recipe of yours is a dirty liar.”

Mary stifles a nervous laugh. She has a feeling it won't help. “Did you use Italian all-spice?

“What?”

“It’s in a matching container to the curry powder.” She squeezes the wine bottle, smiles. “Quite stupid, I know. Bad for us academics and our wandering minds.”

Marisa looks devastated. As though Mary just announced that the Authority has returned, with flaming swords and legions of Angels to back him up. Space-time indeed warps around the wrinkle in her brow, how the ladle shakes in her fist. Her hunched shoulders. Her gaze drops down, right to the bottle in Mary’s hand.

“Alcohol and cooking don’t mix either,” Mary says. She says it a lot less lightly than she means.

“I’m not drunk,” Marisa snaps, the last word ground up by a pestle. She presses a finger deep into her temple. “Just a terrible cook.”

Mary has never liked the taste of wine. It’s the tannins, she learned in an introductory chemistry class. Some people react too strongly to bitterness. There’s an inelegant metaphor there, about Mary finding the body of Christ bland and the blood too bitter. Quite essentialist too, a joke Oliver would make at a staff party after Mary opts for a cola.

There’s a sniffle, disrupting this search for a proper diversion. Marisa’s eyes are wet and unfocused; or, more likely, she is focused on a somewhere neither of them can ever enter again. Mary swallows her all tangents whole. “I don’t think all is lost,” she says softly. She puts the bottle down. “If you’ll let me try a few things, we could probably turn it into a viable sauce for a pasta.”

Marisa watches her. Her thumb wavers by her mouth, a vulnerable gesture. It’s like Ída perches on a thatch of thistle; Mary feels all those tiny spines lancing at her heart. There were many women who came to the convent with bitten nails, swaying on their feet. Mary liked to offer them a glass of juice, leftovers from the last meal. Something solid and real. Something they can refuse.

“Or get take-out? We both like the Pad Thai place.”

Marisa turns back to the saucepan. She clacks, clacks her nails again on the counter. “This is your kitchen. I daresay you can do whatever you like.”

This wrangles a laugh from Mary’s throat and sets it free as, well, a bird. Of course, Ída is laughing too now. She can hear her caw, rich as the soup bubbling on the stove. “Sorry! Sorry. Not laughing at you, not at all. My mum would say that, only in reverse. ‘It’s my kitchen now, May, when it’s yours you can run it however you want.”

To her surprise, Marisa unfurls into a sharp grin. It’s different from her smile. “May?”

Mary nods, knowing her face is bright red. At least she’s in good company. “Family nickname,” she lies. “You know, I bet there is a simple fix. Cooking is only basic chemistry at the end of the day. I know someone in the departm—”

“Chemistry,” Marisa murmurs. “Of course.” She stands up straight, vertebrae aligned, entire expression alighting in a ring of blue fire. Oh, that’s a metaphor. She reaches out a hand. “Give me the Google, Dr. Malone.”

Ída caws again, spreads tingles across her back. _I want to know her daemon’s name._

Mary hands over her phone. “Have at it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mary's daemon is named after [St. Ita of Limerick](https://celticsaints.org/2014/0115a.html), an Irish nun who died around 570 CE. In one story about her, an angel approaches her in a dream to give her three stones. When she wakes up, she becomes very curious about what the stones represent, whereupon the angel arrives and is like, "Hey! I told you in the dream!" Also, she was called "the foster-mother of the Saints of Ireland" - a role I think Mary inhabits.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment if you're inclined.


End file.
